What good is liquor, if you have nothing to hide, from yourself? An open book, I am, all is written on the cover. The message is useless, if you look at the face of the news bringer. Deduce from incomplete information, what you already know is true.
My mind does not move – truth from the outside – in. It projects what it believes, in a universe that is his. Only at inflection points, the script is revised. The first draft, I remember when I wrote it. At the time it felt, like a most significant discovery. Today, a hypothesis that I rejected.
In the Material, a lie repeated endlessly becomes truth. Language, tortured, will adapt to the speaker. Stockholm syndrome, cannot express “dissent”, if it has no meaning. If you seek power, then bend the rules, to muddle the water, of the collective unconscious.
Myself, I believe in consensus and compromise. When conditions are present, hands can be shaken, a common ground can be established, between two men. A common goal between us, Byzantine diplomacy, an agreement, that is possible.
I wait at the Green Table.